Poetry
by Chasyn
Summary: Ian was poetry.


**Warnings and Notes** : First time in this fandom. Also I just started season 3. So I really know nothing beyond that about the show. Other than what Slyther has raved about. So prolly lots of inaccuracies. 8D This is a gift for Slyther, who completely my challenge of "not talking about Ian" for 24 hours. Granted... she slept during part of that. XD And the other part, she was off-line. So who really knows if she really did it or not. XD  
 **Pairings** : Mickey Milkovich/Ian Gallagher

 **Summary** : Ian was poetry.

 **Poetry**

Ian moved. Ian _moved_. His body rolled like water, twisted and turned. He swayed and spun like fluid motion. He moved like sex, like poetry. In tune with the music, with the beat of Mickey's heart. Mickey had been watching the way Ian's body moved for a while, longer that he'd care to admit. Not that he'd ever admit it.

He watched when Ian danced, of course. His muscles popped, shimmied, bounced, lit up by the racing lights. But he'd been watching long before Ian first danced in the club. He watched when Ian smiled, when he laughed with his whole body. He watched when they fought, swinging fists or tire irons. He watched when they ran, when Ian chased him after Mickey kicked that old faggot's ass for calling them boyfriends. (They weren't boyfriends. That was bullshit.) Mickey watched Ian when they fucked. He watched the way Ian's stomach muscles rolled when he thrust into him, the way his hips moved when he pulled out and slammed back in. Mickey couldn't move like that. Mickey moved in jerking motions. He kicked and punched and pushed. He couldn't sway. He barreled. He yanked, hauled, twitched.

The Gallagher house was unusually quiet. Almost eerily. Fiona was at work, Ian had said. Carl and Debbie were at sleepovers. Liam was next door at V and Kev's. Lip was wherever the fuck Lip went. Frank hadn't been seen in nearly a week. Again.

Mickey leaned forward on Ian's unmade bed. He hunched over. Arched, stooped, bent. Even sitting, he knew he looked like a thug. He couldn't relax. He didn't know how. It wasn't in his nature. He heard the water slow and shut off. He sat up a little straighter. He wasn't even sure why.

Ian glided into the room a moment later. That was the best way to describe it. Ian was still wet, drops of water cascading down his torso. Fuck, it was mesmerizing. Mickey's eyes were glued to those wet muscles and the way too low towel haphazardly wrapped around the taut waist. Ian smiled widely, the movements drawing Mickey's eyes upward. Ian was looking way too smug.

Ian floated a few more steps into the room. He stopped in the middle and swayed a bit on his feet. He didn't look like he even realized he was doing it. Ian was just... Ian. He was beautiful. Graceful, delicate, ripped. Mickey knew Ian could crush him if he really wanted to. If he put real effort into it. He could destroy Mickey. None of that Mickey would ever say out loud, of course.

"Poetry." Is what the Milkovich did say. It was mumbled, the word barely audible. And he hadn't meant to let it slip out.

Ian's whole face lit up, starting with his eyes.

Mickey rolled his own and shook his head. "Repeat that and I'll cut your fucking tongue out."

Ian let out a laugh. "You need a new threat." He said, his voice just as light, smooth, and fluid as his body. "It's getting old. And I know you like my tongue." Ian stuck his tongue out and wagged it a bit.

"Fuck this." Mickey stood abruptly and shook his head. "Forget it."

Ian's eyes widened slightly, clearly surprised by Mickey's outburst and change in demeanor. "Forget what?" He asked slowly.

"Forget it!" Mickey snapped louder. He pushed past Ian roughly.

Ian reached out quickly, grabbing Mickey's arm and stopping him. "Mick, wait. I honestly have no clue." Mickey turned back to Ian, his eyes narrowed into a glare and he blatantly stared. Ian frowned, his eyebrows slowly furrowing.

Mickey tore his arm away and turned slightly. He considered just punching Ian in the gut and running. That seemed like a viable option. It was always a viable option, and one he took so many times. He grunted loudly and shook his head. "I don't know how ya do it." His voice was soft again, way too soft for a Milkovich.

"Do what?" Ian asked slowly.

"Move!" Mickey snapped. He threw up his arms and gestured to all of Ian. "You move like fucking..."

"Poetry?" Ian finished with a sly smile, his head tilted to the side.

Mickey's eyes narrowed again. "Fuck you!" He snapped angrily, lifting his hand to point at Ian.

Ian was still smiling. "Maybe later." He said casually and Mickey shoved Ian away. Ian laughed and quickly held up his hands. "Okay, okay." He stepped towards Mickey again slowly, floating again. He reached for Mickey's hand again. Mickey didn't push him away this time. Or pull away or punch him. "So you like the way I dance." He stated softly.

Mickey's gaze dropped to the floor. "I uh..." He stuttered for a second and bit his lower lip. "I like the way you move." He finally admitted softly. "When you dance, yeah." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "But... you... being you, man. Everything you do... you like..." He glanced away again. "You float and shit." When Mickey looked back at Ian, the redhead was grinning, ear to ear. His whole face lit up again.

"I'm not saying nothing." Ian said quickly. He tugged Mickey closer. "I can show you..."

"Show me?" Mickey repeated, a smile slowly spreading across his face. Ian spun around quickly in one fluid motion, his back to Mickey. He tugged Mickey closer again. "I like this." Mickey said, his breath ghosting against Ian's shoulder blade.

Ian let out a laugh and lifted Mickey's hand. He placed it on his hips, just above the top of his towel. He reached back and grabbed Mickey's other hand. He held both to his hips firmly. "Move with me." He said in a commanding voice. "Slowly." Ian rolled his body forward, moving Mickey with him.

"Yeah, I like this." Mickey mumbled out again.

Ian laughed again and leaned his head back. HIs lips brushed Mickey's cheek. "Pay attention and feel."

"Oh I'm feeling."

Ian lifted his hand from Mickey's long enough to smack it. "The movement."

Mickey got quiet after that. He tried to do exactly what Ian said. Feel the movements. It was hard. It was _so hard_. But he pushed his dick from his mind and closed his eyes.

 **-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

 **Author's Notes:** There might be more. I haven't decided.


End file.
